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THE FRENCH CONFECTION

Episode 4: Sara Sarta

* * * * *

Carmelita sat at her desk. She was just starting her third doughnut. Her softened cheeks bobbed as she chewed the glazed pastry. Her full breasts spread nearly half an arm's length from her chest, catching any stray crumbs that fell. Below, her plump ass packed her jeans, round and juicy. And her broad, chunky hips led to spread-out thighs that squished together where they met. The bottom of her butterscotch-furred belly poked out cautiously from under her shirt, as if it hungered for full exposure but did not have the guts for it. It bubbled over her waistband and barely made contact with her lap. It also bumped her breasts outward with its pudge.

Carmelita's phone rest on the desk, recording her voice.

"Byron Nourrisseur," Carmelita said, "is presumed missing. I'm going through his international connections to determine the nature of his disappearance. My next lead is Adele Gonfiarsi. Byron used to work as her personal baker.

"It must have been a lucrative career, because Adele is herself an infamous mafia boss in San Marino. But it also means that Byron could have acquired enemies while he worked for her--enemies that could be responsible for his disappearance.

"But I don't expect Adele to open up to INTERPOL willingly. That's why I've chosen to pursue her tailor."

Carmelita held a photo of a diminutive ibex: a tan goat with short horns that curved gracefully over her scalp. Her hair was long and straight in a chocolatey brunette color.

"Her name is Sara Sarta," Carmelita said. "When I contact her, I hope to learn something about Byron's past and his connections."

Carmelita polished off her doughnut. The sweet, sticky glaze and fried, fluffy dough were delectable. She pat her satisfied stomach, and it rippled in her lap.

"One more thing. When I picked up doughnuts for the office this morning, they made another mistake. This time, we got an extra doughnut shaped like an 'M'.

"It tasted fine to me."

* * * * *

Sara Sarta sat in Adele Gonfiarsi's personal office. The carpet was lush and maroon; the walls were a distinguished beige; but the blinds were closed, and the whole room was only lit by one lamp in a corner. Sara's chair faced a cherry wood desk. Behind the desk was a chair turned away--a very wide chair.

Sara was nervous. You don't get a call from the Godmother for nothing. "Hello, Godmother," she said waveringly. "I heard you wanted to talk."

The chair spun around. Its occupant, Adele Gonfiarsi, was a rotund weasel whose body filled every inch of the leather chair. She wore a breathtaking evening dress in sultry crimson. It hugged her every curve: her bulbous breasts, serving as a proud rack, which would rest on the desk if she scooted close enough. Then there was her heavy gut, as big as a barrel, yet able to hold more. Finally, the dress followed the sweeping contour of her wide hips, currently lodged firm in her chair. Its sway drew eyes from men and women alike.

Adele spoke to Sara in a calm, smoky voice. "I thought you were my friend, Sara. I thought I could trust you. But now, I'm not so sure. First, my shirt buttons pop clean off at my sister's wedding. I'm standing there, just trying to enjoy the hors d'oeuvres like everybody else, when suddenly my stomach" (which she slapped now for emphasis, jostling its bulk intimidatingly) "is bare for everyone to see. How do you think I felt?"

Sara took a moment to find her voice. "E-embarrassed?"

"Yes, exactly, embarrassed. But then I think to myself, I think, my good friend Sara, my good, sweet friend, she wouldn't do something to upset me." She paused. The edges of her lips pressed her puffy jowls. "Would you?"

"No, of course not!" Sara stammered in a panic.

"No, no, of course you wouldn't," the weasel continued. "But then something funny happened. Today, I eat lunch at Tony's. It's amazing, spectacular, really the best pizza around. So good that I figure what the hell, I'll get a second pie. And that hit the spot, let me tell you. But when I got up to leave, do you know what I noticed?"

Sara was afraid she did know. "No, what did you notice?" she asked nervously.

The weasel's stomach rumbled angrily, and she dug a pudgy paw into a bowl of M&Ms on the desk. She let some spill between her fingers like grains of sand. Then she shoved the handful into her mouth. She chewed with large scarfing noises and crunching bites. She swallowed. It was a drop in the ocean of blubber that composed her stomach.

Adele's voice grew stern. "I noticed that perhaps my tailor cut some corners." She pushed down on the arms of her chair to dislodge her meaty hips. After standing, she strode to Sara. Her footfalls were slams, emphasizing her weight. Each step hefted her hips back and forth, and the adipose lining every nook and cranny of her figure bounced from the force of each step.

She turned around, showing her wobbling ass to Sara. Her outgrown derriere was visible through the seat of her dress. Its fur plumped into a tear down the middle, creating a window to the cleavage between her bulging cheeks.

So, Sara faced a huge rip down the seat of the dress, where Adele's doughy ass bulged through liberally. "What do you see?" Adele demanded.

"Your dress has a tear," Sara said in a faltering voice.

"That's right, a tear," Adele said over her shoulder to Sara. "A second wardrobe malfunction in the same week. I get the idea you think I'm a joke. Do you like it when my clothes burst open?"

"No, no, I do my best to make you the finest in fashion and comfort," Sara pleaded.

"Maybe you think my ass is something you can mock with faulty clothing?" She slapped her rear, and its cheeks bounced to and fro for a few moments.

"No, not at all!"

The weasel's voice lowered, sober. "Then prove it," she said. She pushed her hips back, shoving her butt in Sara's face. "Kiss my ass."

Sara gulped. She had no choice. She put her two paws around the weasel's butt cheeks, gripping their broad, fleshy span in her fingertips. She craned her neck forward. She pursed her lips as they met the fur from the weasel's cushioned backside. The Godmother's butt was so soft, so plush as she pressed her lips to it and smacked them in a kiss. She released her paws, and the weasel stood upright.

Adele faced Sara. "Good, I'm glad we're friends. For your sake, I hope it stays that way."

* * * * *

The next evening, Carmelita arrived in San Marino. She walked down small cobblestone streets under the waning sun. The exposed sliver of her round gut did not distract her as she examined blocks of stucco town homes.

She spotted Sara's home. She walked up to the house's big wooden door and knocked.

Sara opened the door, but she instantly saw the badge resting in Carmelita's well-padded cleavage. "Good evening, can I help you?" Her tone was guarded, icy.

"I'm here to ask you some questions pertaining to a missing person case," Carmelita explained.

"I see," Sara replied. "Are you with the police?"

Carmelita thought it an odd question. "Not your local police. I'm an agent of INTERPOL. I'm not affiliated with any local law enforcement."

Sara paused a moment. "Alright, come in."

Sara led Carmelita into a cramped living room lined with racks of clothes. There was a wide variety, from formalwear to beachwear, but they all had one thing in common: their large size. The smallest pieces were still wider than Carmelita's bulldozer hips.

Sara gestured to a couch half-occupied by plus-sized hot pants. "Please, take a seat," she said. Carmelita found a free space to plant her chunky butt on the couch. Sitting, her fluffy belly fur rolled out over her waistband and peeked out of the bottom of her shirt. Sara moved some shirts off of a nearby chair to give herself room to sit.

"I'm looking for Byron Nourrisseur," Carmelita said. Her padded cheeks and softened chin framed a focused expression: plump lips set straight and piercing eyes over rounded cheeks.

"Byron," Sara mulled. "Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time."

"So you know him?" Carmelita asked.

"Sure, kind of. We were acquaintances. I haven't seen him in over a year, though."

"What did he do for a living when you last knew him?"

"Well, the last time I saw him, he was excited to take a job working for some restaurant in France. But before that, he was the Godmother's favorite."

The Godmother... "Adele Gonfiarsi?" Carmelita asked.

"Yes, Miss Gonfiarsi, the Godmother. Byron was her personal baker."

This matched the intelligence Carmelita already had. "How did they part? Was it on good terms? Any sign of tension?" she asked.

Sara shook her head no. "No, not at all. She helped arrange his interview at that restaurant, after all. She loved that man--not romantically, you know--but she was just so fond of him. I can't imagine her hurting him."

Seemed unlikely to be Gonfiarsi, but still: "What if she wanted to take out Byron? What would she do?"

Sara replied, "She could never order a hit or something like that. The Godmother thinks murder is too messy, leaves her too open to trouble. Instead of ordering hits, her goons will knock over your fridge."

Carmelita wrinkled her brow. "Is that a term of art?" she asked.

"Yeah, sorry. It's easy to take for granted that not everyone knows the Godmother's methods, when we live with them every day here. 'Knocking over someone's fridge' is when you eat everything in a person's house. It's robbery, but for items that aren't insured, and for something you need to live."

"So you don't believe she would orchestrate Byron's disappearance. What about her enemies? Could they retaliate against Gonfiarsi by killing Byron?"

Sara thought. She said, "It just doesn't sound right. He's a baker. I've never seen anyone willing to lay a hand on him. Once he shared a cookie, he was your friend."

Carmelita wasn't sure that Sara's assessment was entirely accurate, but it still contained valuable information.

Carmelita said, "I see, thank you for your time. By the way, have you ever eaten at L'Bouffer?"

"No, but I tailor for the owner. Why do you ask?"

Of all the luck!! "Brioche Bombe, correct?" Carmelita asked.

"Yes, her. She had a funny commission for me last month. Normally she goes up a size and buys a new dress from me. But last month, she went up two sizes, not one. I guess she put on more weight than she normally does, or maybe she went to someone else."

Carmelita thought. So, around the time of Byron's disappearance, Brioche Bombe ordered an unusually big upgrade in the size of her wardrobe. "That's interesting," Carmelita said.

"If you don't mind, I need to find dinner," Sara said. "I don't have much here. I can't afford much for myself if I'm going to make this month's protection money for the Godmother."

A protection racket, too? Carmelita asked, "Have you ever reported this to the police?"

"No," Sara said. "She has them eating out of her paws. If I go to them, it could make things worse. And I'm already worried about what I owe this month. So I don't want to stir up any more trouble."

Carmelita formed a wry smile, plumping her chunky cheeks. "I think I can help you," she said.

* * * * *

Over dinner, quite a filling dinner for Carmelita, she informed Sara of her plan.

INTERPOL worked directly with the DIA, Italy's department for busting organized crime. Gonfiarsi had ties within Italy's Polizia di Stato that protected her from the DIA. They prevented reports from reaching the DIA and squashed the ones that did. Carmelita could bring those ties to light within the DIA--if she had hard evidence.

Carmelita still hadn't used last year's bonus. Now, she knew what to do with it.

They stocked Sara's house with food. And more food. And more food. Enough to feed several families, and hopefully enough to stuff one family.

Then, they bugged Sara's house. Hidden cameras and microphones would pick up everything down to the smallest rumble, the daintiest bite, the softest gurgle.

Four flies were going to stick in their web.

Emma Cameriere was Adele's recently-married sister. She was also her main enforcer. She was as much bust as she was belly--and she had a lot of belly. Her style was upscale and gaudy.

Viola was Adele's personal guard. No one knew her family name. She was a pear-shaped St. Bernard with a well-fed gut and immense, overloaded thighs. Her butt either smothered you or crushed you, depending on the severity of your offense.

Adele Gonfiarsi, of course, was the boss that brought them all together. Her hunger and heft were tools of coercion, oppression. Her friends were won with lavish meals. Walking the streets of San Marino, if you saw someone with an outsized waist, they were probably in Gonfiarsi's pocket.

Captain Alessandra Ingozzare was one of those someones. She was a frog, and she was once a respectable member of law enforcement. But Adele's power and influence snowballed along with her waistline. When Alessandra had to choose between certain downfall or absurd wealth, she made the rational choice: to grow fat and happy. Adele's influence bloated her frame, swelling her gut with ill-gotten gains.

Sara would need to weather their assault, on camera, to bring the corruption to light.

* * * * *

In a week, Sara's money came due. That evening, Carmelita monitored the house from a nondescript van a block away, where she could watch video and audio feeds from the bugs. She munched snack chips.

Sara was alone in her house, working the sewing machine, when she heard a knock at the door. She rose to answer.

On the other side was a busty weasel. She wore a sparkling evening dress that barely contained her breasts, which bulged over the top of the dress like a muffin's top. Each was bigger than her head, which was quite a feat, considering that her face was caked in lard on her cheeks and her neck. So busty was she, in fact, that her stomach seemed moderate by comparison, despite forming a billowing bowl of jelly that supported her rack and blimped halfway down her thighs.

She said, "Sara, so good to see you." She bore a wide smile, pushing her pudgy cheeks and showing her sharp, glistening teeth. Her voice was deep but sweet.

"Emma, hi," Sara responded, nervous.

"My sister Adele tells me maybe this isn't such a good time for you. Can I come in and we can talk about it?"

Emma Cameriere, Adele's sister, was here to collect protection money, or failing that, to eat something of equal value.

"I don't have your money," Sara mumbled. She could barely bring herself to follow the script.

"What's that?" Emma asked. She tilted her head to show Sara her round ear, and her neck fat contorted into rolls. She also leaned forward, showing her fluffy and liberal cleavage.

Sara spoke up. "I said, 'I don't have your money.'"

"Well that's a shame," Emma said in a sing-song voice. She licked her lips. "But I'm sure we can work something out."

Sara stood her ground in the doorway. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb," Emma growled. She gripped the door frame, reared her hips back, and then thrust her pelvis forward. Her bulky paunch and heavyset breasts slammed Sara, knocking her on her back. She struggled on the ground with the wind knocked out of her while Emma strode into the house.

Watching from the van, Carmelita tensed. She'd have to leave Sara on her own for this to work. But it was hard to watch, knowing that she could step in and prevent Sara's immediate harm.

In Sara's house, Emma walked easily in her high heels. They exaggerated her hips' swing and accentuated her juicy bubble butt. She entered the kitchen. It was modest, with a white-and-green tile floor and wooden pantry. But its counters were overloaded: tall cakes here, lengthy sandwiches there, a steaming pan of macaroni and cheese past those, and more... too much to fathom. Emma's mouth watered.

"Hey, you got a party tonight or something?" she yelled into the other room.

Sara froze. She needed a lie. "Tomorrow," she said with a groan, rising from the floor. "I just got everything ready. Please, don't touch a thing!"

Emma's eyes sparkled as she beheld the most beautiful meatball sub of her life sitting on the counter. Half a meter of warm, toasted bread chock full of huge meatballs, overrun with perfectly melty, gooey mozzarella, and lathered thick with zesty tomato sauce. "Don't worry," she said, "I just want a taste."

With her hands, she ripped off half of the sub and shoved half of that into her long weasel snout. She bit down, coating her lips in marinara lip gloss. She moaned as she chewed, mashing her teeth to grind the contents of her stuffed maw. She swallowed, loud and mushy, and slurped her lips clean.

She crammed the rest into her mouth. Chewing, she looked around and spotted a nice red wine. With a sharp claw painted ruby red, she popped its cork out. She put the bottle to her lips and took several hearty gulps. Then, she set that down and tore through the other half of the sub.

Sara watched.

Next, Emma picked alfredo linguine, also on the counter. The bowl should have served two. Tonight, it would serve one. She lifted it to her mouth and tilted it towards her gullet. Creamy alfredo sauce sludged out of the bowl and over her tongue, all while carrying long, thin strips of pasta. She gulped continuously until the whole dish emptied into her. Satisfied, she licked her lips and sighed before a bassy, luscious burp celebrated her victory, rippling her cheeks as it blasted out.

She set the dish down. Her paws stroked her belly, which was definitely feeling the pressure of the food thrown haphazardly into it. But this was just the start for Emma Cameriere. No mere stuffing would do. For her, eating was a tool of dominance, an enforcement mechanism to maintain the proper order of society. You couldn't avoid paying the Gonfiarsis their due. In the end, they would get it, even if they had to eat it.

But still, Emma could use a seat after all that work. She took heavy steps towards the table, scraping her furry thighs against each other, squeezed as they were into her dazzling dress. She swept one leg past the other, grating her two flabby thighs into each other. With one step, her plump foot hit the floor, jammed into her elegant high-heeled shoe. Her chunky butt cheek bounced atop her leg. Then she put weight on that leg as the other one moved, and her shoe creaked under the stress of holding up her whole body.

After five shoe-testing, ass-jiggling, rack-wobbling steps, Emma pulled out a chair and sat. Before her was a delectable tiramisu topped with berries. Foregoing silverware, she clawed out hunks of it with her paws. Its moist ladyfingers shred easily, and Emma scarfed it down greedily. "Omf, nomf, nomf," she went, furiously working her flabby arms to whip the pastry into her mouth. She licked its remnants from her fingers. The plate was emptied in a hedonous frenzy.

She took a moment to catch her breath. So much to eat, and it was all so good. She licked her lips, stroked her belly, and cooed. It was gonna be a good night.

But enough of that, there was social order to keep. Emma gripped the back of her chair and the top of the table, then pushed off, so that she could muster the force to stand. She rose with an uneasy balance, and she strained her muscles to heft her lard upright. But, after huffing and puffing, her legs managed to support her engorged gut.

Her legs did. Her heels didn't.

When she finally stood straight, her heels cracked with a sharp snap. Their thin, pointed construction wasn't meant to support 180-plus kilograms of obese weasel blubber, especially when that weasel now had a dense belly crammed with weighty foodstuffs. She yelped and fell backwards, rump-first towards the chair. Her jiggling butt crashed through the chair like a wrecking ball through concrete, shattering it under her well-fed immensity. Her ass and thighs slapped the ground hard. "Ow!" she yelled.

Once her quaking flesh came to rest, Emma wriggled her fingers into her deep, dense cleavage. They pushed between the two soft orbs and fished out her phone. She called Adele. "Sis? Yeah... I'm gonna need some help. ... Yeah, I know. I just, I didn't--... Yeah." She paused and slipped the phone back down her crammed boob crack.

"Can you get up?" Sara asked. She offered a hand.

"I'm not done eating, you rat." She batted Sara's hand. "It's not my fault your chairs are flimsy and cheap. Now get me more food, those profiteroles looked good."

"I refuse," Sara said flatly. She just wanted to cave, to bring Emma whatever she wanted. But for this to work, she had to follow the script.

"Don't make this harder on yourself (HIC--urph), sweetheart," Emma said. "You're already in deep."

A short while later, an ample-hipped St. Bernard slammed the front door open with her broad, husky hips. Her ass wobbled from the effort. She wore black slacks, with a black suit jacket over a button-up white shirt. Her beefy paunch formed a thick slab of fat over her midsection, plumping out the top of her pants. Even through her jacket's sleeves, you could tell she had meaty biceps. This was Viola, Adele's personal guard.

Sara turned her head to find the sudden noise. She saw Viola waddle into the house. The St. Bernard went first through the living room, and as she walked by racks of clothes, her extra-thick haunches shuffled plus-sized dresses, shirts, and skirts.

Her hips swept side to side in a mechanical, even rhythm, swinging her heft in an intimidating way. Sara wanted to ask what the big idea was, but she could not find her voice.

Viola entered the kitchen. She was pleased with the feast on display. "Hello, Sara. I'm here to make sure things go smoothly before the Godmother gets here. I trust you've taken good care of her sister, Emma?"

Emma spoke up from her position, beached on the floor under her own adipose. "No! Could I get some profiteroles down here or what?"

Viola the guard stared at Sara. "Well?" Viola asked.

"Um," Sara retorted. She should have fought back, but her backbone was soft.

Viola whipped her hips around and hurled her ass at Sara, pinning her to the wall between thick, floppy cheeks. Their fat flooded around Sara. Viola applied pressure against Sara, and the weight made Sara's pelvis feel ready to crack. She gripped Viola's weaponized adipose and tried fruitlessly to push it away. Viola's floofy tail batted Sara's face all the while.

Viola plucked a slice of seafood pizza and shoved it whole in her mouth. "Youf know whaf to do," she commanded through a packed maw.

"Get her the profiteroles," Sara strained to say. Viola's ass was so expansive, and no matter where she clutched its blubber, she couldn't find a way to crowbar its fat off of her.

"Goodf girl," Viola said. She eased away from Sara.

Sara took a moment to collect herself. Then she picked up the pan of profiteroles. Emma tilted her head up and opened her mouth wide. Sara tilted the pan towards Emma's hungry mouth and slid them in with her hand. They landed on Emma's welcoming tongue and packed her maw.

Meanwhile, Viola polished off the seafood pizza and moved on to the minestrone. She took a bowl, scooped out a serving, and gulped it down swiftly. She continued that way, happy to guzzle the hearty soup.

After some time, Adele arrived. She wore a blue blazer with a skirt that ran down to her knees. Standing in the kitchen doorway, she said, "An expensive spread like this, when you can't pay a meager protection fee? Why did you purchase such a large feast before helping your own Godmother? Sara, I'm hurt. I really am." She turned to her guard dog. "Viola, I'm a very emotional eater, aren't I?"

Viola's voice was deep, stoic. "Yes, Godmother."

Adele clutched a nearby calzone and shred off a large hunk with her hungry mandible. Without chewing, she gulped it down, issuing a threatening GRUNK from her throat as it passed down her esophagus. She ran her tongue over her plump lips.

Sara sweat. She knew what to say, according to the script. But fear strangled her mind, freezing her in place. She had to bypass her survival instincts to say: "That's not for you."

Adele guffawed. Her voluminous gut shook up and down, jiggling furiously from laughter. Her sister, girth lying on the floor, howled in laughter, slapping her tubby belly. Once their mirth died down, Adele wiped a tear from her eye. She said, "I decide what is mine." She inhaled the rest of the calzone.

Sara took out her cell phone. Viola the guard asked through a mouthful of spaghetti, "Fwho arf you callingsche?"

Sara stared at her phone while she dialed. Without eye contact, it was easier to focus on what she needed to do. "The police," she said. "You're trespassing."

Emma, Adele's floor-bound sister, spoke. "Trespassing? You invited us in, out of the kindness of your heart."

Adele said to Sara, "Do not pay attention to my sister. If you need, please, call the police. I'm sure they will do the right thing."

While Sara called the police, Adele turned to the kitchen fridge, jostling her bulk with every footfall. She opened the door and found food galore: vegetables, cured meats, cheeses, milk and cream, and more. She pulled up two chairs to the fridge and sat, flooding each seat with her chunky cheeks. Their thick fat hung over the sides of each chair by just a few centimeters.

Adele pulled out a bundle of celery in plastic packaging. She grasped as many as she could in one paw, then jammed them into her mouth as far as she could. She bit through the bundle in a meaty, merciless series of wet crunches, shredding fresh celery with her sharp teeth. Her cheeks bulged with the vegetable, and she munched the celery to bits loudly before swallowing. She crammed the rest down her throat and let the packaging fall to the floor.

Then, she snatched a glass jar of ranch dressing. She popped off the lid, put the jar to her lips, and tilted back. The viscous dressing ran thick out of the jar and into her hungry maw. She inhaled most of it in two gulps. The last of it she had to slurp out of the jar, something her tongue knew how to do quite well. She let that fall, too, shattering on impact with the tile floor.

Next came a whole salami. She unwrapped it, gripped it in two paws, and bit down. Salty meat stuffed her mouth, and she chewed quickly through the dense pork sausage. She swallowed the hunk of meat quickly and tore through more.

Juicy tomatoes squished between Adele's merciless teeth. Blocks of cheese disappeared into her stomach with rude scarfing noises. The milk ran easy down her gullet, leaving only a wet belch in its wake. At the same time, Viola had forced her snout into a tub of gelato, and Sara was stuck shoveling risotto into Emma's bulging belly.

Sara was uncomfortable hosting Adele's raid, but she was more nervous about the fourth and final participant, who was about to arrive.

She heard a deep ribbit, even over the ruckus of the binging mobsters. A swollen gut of a frog lurched into the kitchen, clad in a white-shirt-black-pants uniform. Her belt dug into her belly, and Sara wondered that she could reach the belt clasp at all. Her pants hugged hips that were thinner than her waist, yet still much wider than Sara. And her breasts were quaint droplets resting on her oceanic tummy. Her belly quaked with each step, causing her belt to bob up and down.

She also wore a cap signifying her station. She was Captain Alessandra Ingozzare of the Polizia di Stato. She turned to Sara and asked, "Are you Sara Sarta?"

Sara said, "Yes ma'am."

"You reported a disturbance at your domicile, and I'm here to follow up."

"Yes! These three women entered my house without my permission and demanded to eat my food."

Alessandra took a moment to observe the kitchen and its occupants. "Doesn't look that way to me. Seems like you've just got a couple of guests over for dinner. I wouldn't mind joining, actually. I appreciate the invitation." Her stomach growled playfully.

"I didn't invite you to eat my food," Sara insisted, again following the script. The more she did, the easier it became to stand up for herself. "They've stolen enough of it."

Alessandra looked at Sara in the eyes. "Maybe some day someone will break into your house, and you'll call the police. Only the officers on duty can't come to the rescue because one officer's stomach is so big that it swallows the steering wheel and the other one's ass is so wide they can't shut the car door."

Alessandra took a cooked ham, the prosciutto cotto, in her hands. She tore into it with her wide frog mouth, shredding off a great big piece. She chewed slowly. Her chin flab squished up and down under her deliberately mashing jaw. Her eyes maintained fierce contact with Sara's, even as she soaked in the salty but sweet glaze.

She swallowed. "Or maybe you wake up in a burning building. But no fire engine is on the way. One firefighter's suit won't zipper past her tits. The other one split her suit because her fat ass is so big."

Alessandra gnawed off another huge chunk.

"I'm not threatening you. I'm just saying, a lot of unfortunate coincidences happen in this world, and I'd hate to see you face one. If you help me out, I can help you out."

Alessandra popped the rest of the ham into her mouth. "Gof itf?" she asked while chewing the rich meat.

"I understand," Sara said.

From the van, Carmelita clapped. Perfect, that was just what they needed to show the DIA what was going on. Sara just needed to ride out the rest of the evening now. She burped and opened a pack of snack cakes.

In Sara's house, Viola stood with her back to the wall next to a raided pantry, her ass pressed flat and wide against the wall. Her shirt's buttons strained to stay shut, and fluffy white fur poked out between them. The contents of the pantry--various bottles, cans, and boxes--lay at Viola's feet, opened and conquered. She held one final box in her hand, a pack of chocolate chip cookies. She ripped off the top and dumped it into her mouth. Not a crumb went to waste. Half the pack slid from the box to her mouth before she was forced to chew. She brought her teeth down on the cluster of food like a trash compactor: slow, steady, merciless. She swallowed, then she disposed of the rest of the cookies similarly. She loosed her grip on the box, letting it join the spread of emptied containers below. She pushed her feet forward along the floor, letting her back slide down the wall. As she did, her legs pushed up her belly, pressing it against her shirt. On her way down, her stomach pushed through the shirt's buttons, popping them off one by one from bottom to top. Her butt met the floor, and she sighed in relief as the last button flew off.

She burped softly. "Hey, can I get the cannolis over here?" she demanded. Her belly rose and fell with each labored breath.

Sara turned to her. "You look pretty full," she noted.

"And you look like you'd find it hard to breathe with my ass on your chest." She patted her belly, jiggling it. "Cannolis, now."

Sara grabbed the tray of cannolis from the counter and handed it to Viola. She balanced it using her protruding gut and plucked pastries from it.

Captain Alessandra Ingozzare found she had slim pickings, since she was the last one to the party. But one decadent dish remained untouched: the cassata, a gorgeous layer cake. Alessandra lifted its plate to her face and bit right in. Its sponge cake was moist; its icing, sweet.

Adele remained parked in front of the open fridge. She had almost emptied the entire refrigerator into her gut. Just one item remained: a dish of lasagna on the top shelf. She tried to shift her bulk onto her feet, so that she could stand and reach the lasagna. But her belly was too swollen, filled up and puffed out with dense food that weighed her down. She wasn't fit to stand.

She stroked her bloated belly. "Sara! A little help," she said.

Sara looked from Viola to Adele. She'd measured Adele's forceful poundage before. It was crucial, as her tailor, to understand every curve, every inch of flesh brought on by her weight gain, as well as every inch to come. But Sara had never seen Adele like this: so taken by her eating that her stomach looked inflated. It groaned under her vast, doughy breasts, seated lazily in the broad lap of her thunderous thighs.

Sara grabbed a fork and took the lasagna from the top shelf of the fridge. Instead of handing over the dish, Sara forked off a bite. She led the fork to Adele's plump lips.

Adele blinked. No one had ever served her when she was knocking over their fridge. Cautiously, she opened her mouth.

Sara inserted the fork, Adele bit down, and Sara retrieved the fork. She watched Adele's jaw work up and down, squishing her double chin and bobbing her puffy cheeks in a mesmerizing slowdance. Sara scooted a half-step closer to Adele so that her knees bumped into Adele's padded and stuffed gut. It felt soft and dense, even through Adele's dress.

Captain Alessandra's voice shook Sara's attention away from Adele. "Hey!" she said. Alessandra had herself moved into the last remaining kitchen chair, not that you could see it under her turgid bulk. She burped thick and demanded, "I could use some ravioli here."

"A-absolutely," Sara stammered, blushing. She rest the lasagna on Adele's bulging bosom and grabbed a bowl of ravioli from the counter. She placed it in Alessandra's waiting, webbed fingers.

Alessandra took the bowl and slurped up its pasta swiftly with a swing of her tongue. The ravioli squished in her mouth as she chewed. She moaned in pleasure.

Sara heard a fork clatter on tile. She turned to Adele in time to watch the lasagna dish, licked clean, shatter against the floor.

Adele Gonfiarsi's ass straddled two chairs. She felt pinned into them under a distended, gurgling gut. It shifted up and down with every labored breath she took, quivering her fatty tits. Her plump hands ran her thick fingers along her overburdened stomach.

"I (hhHIC) hope you've... oof, you've learned your lesson," she said, breathy. Her stomach groaned.

Sara surveyed the wreckage. Laying on the ruins of a chair was Adele's sister, Emma. Her belly was full and round like a beach ball. Her uneasy breathing wobbled her bloated stomach. Her melon-sized knockers threatened to flop into her face, and so she pinned their doughy flesh to her stretched-out gut with her hands. She issued a wet belch: "chgwORp."

Under the pantry sat Adele's guard, the St. Bernard named Viola. Her adipose-packed thighs were barely visible under her swollen gut. It was so round and taut, almost fit to pop. Her belly was on full display through the shirt it had ripped open. The ruined shirt draped off of its sides as a testament to its unbridled gluttony. Her gut squelched.

Finally, the police captain Alessandra sat in her chair, cradling her wrecking ball belly. It croaked, struggling to process its new inmates. Her bloat had turned her stomach into a giant balloon, but her back had already contained dense layers of adipose, which pursed around the back of the chair. On her sides, her waist's folds were too thick to grip. Sitting in a pool of her own flesh, extreme gluttony before her and heavy lard behind her, she looked adrift in a sea of fat.

One by one, Sara had stuffed them all. A nameless, perverse excitement pulsed through her veins. All four engorged idols of obesity breathed, hiccuped, gurgled, and burped as they processed Sara's impossible meal.

"Sara..." Adele said. Sara walked before her. She stifled a belch and tapped her prodigious paunch.

Sara gulped, her heart raced. "I guess I don't have a choice," she said, as if trying to make herself believe as much.

Sara put her hooves to the front of Adele's stomach. It was firm. Her gut was crammed under a heavy rack and over thick, blubbery slabs of thighs, and its compressed volume made its density firm.

Sara's nervous, gentle touch eased Adele's overzealously stuffed belly. She cooed. Her physical comfort combined with her digestive overload, casting a heavy sleepiness over her.

Sara herself was taxed after an evening of serving and stuffing. She kneeled before Adele. She moved her hooves to Adele's sides so that she could rub there, and her head rest on Adele's pillowy breasts. They were so soft and inviting. She could rest her eyes, even if for just a moment . . .

* * * * *

Carmelita survived the night on snack foods and soda, monitoring the Gonfiarsi gang. They didn't move from their spots. They fell asleep, and soon, so did she. When she awoke the next day, her waistband pinched her in a way she hadn't remembered it doing. Looking at the video feed, Gonfiarsi and company had already split.

Carmelita let Sara know the operation was a success. But she'd have to open a case with INTERPOL and send the video to Italy's DIA. Word could reach Alessandra, and ultimately, Adele. She offered witness protection to Sara.

Another witness in harm's way--Byron Nourrisseur kept some nasty company.

Sara considered it. She was unsure.